


The Great and Noble House of Gand

by dracox_serdriel



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: 2x17 Distant Sun, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Daxamites, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Flashbacks, Imprisonment, Isolation, KaraMel, Manipulation, Mental Anguish, Physical Abuse, Return to Daxam, Romance, canon-divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2018-10-14 02:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10526859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracox_serdriel/pseuds/dracox_serdriel
Summary: Canon-divergent from 02x17Distant Sun. Once Mon-El returned to the Daxamite battle cruiser, the DEO possessed no means to rescue or to contact him; thus, he is stranded on the ship bound on a four-year journey to his home planet.





	1. Duress

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers** : All episodes of _Supergirl_ through 02x17 _Distant Sun_.

_I have to get out of here._

Mon-El perched on the edge of his seat, anxious and ready. His recent experiences with confinement had only served to make him wary of cells and prisons. As soon as the door had locked, all he could think about was getting out. Every time he tried to calm down, panic would overwhelm him, and there would only be one thought in his head.

_I have to get out of here._

But it wasn't the cell that was eating at him. With every passing second, he was moving farther and farther from Kara Zor-El, and he wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to live with the fact that he'd never see her again. He didn't know it, but he was still holding out hope that some last-ditch rescue mission might remedy his fate.

Then he felt the primary thrusters kick on in full force, and his heart cracked with the realization that there was no escape. He'd never see Kara, J'onn, Winn, James, or Alex ever again. He closed his eyes and pictured his friends and the woman he loved, and while their parting conjured up a storm of sorrows the likes of which he had never before known, the image of their faces inspired him.

_What would Kara do?_

The answer was obvious: she'd fight back. She'd keep fighting until she found a way to rescue those in danger. So what he needed to know was, what was he fighting? And who was he fighting for?

Mon-El loved Kara, but if he fought against his parents' will to return to her, it would do nothing but put her and everyone else in danger. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't fight for his return to Earth, but he needed something to fight for. Something important. Something bigger than himself.

_My people._

That was what had landed him in this cell to begin with, trying to make his father see reason. What could be more important than ensuring a better future for his people? That was worth fighting for, certainly. 

Then he thought about what he was up against. While millennia of Daxamite history and tradition informed their politics and culture, ultimately those in power manipulated those things to stay in power, which made his parents the real obstacles. His father wasn't interested in change, but his mother had decided his ideas were tantamount to criminal heresy, an offense that Daxam did away with centuries ago. His mother was the one who wanted him in this cell because she believed it would "cure" him of his strange beliefs.

That didn't make sense. Even if she kept him in this cell for the next four years, did she really expect him to emerge from his incarceration as the Prince of Daxam she desired? His mother was many things, but she wasn't a fool. Did she plan to threaten another bounty on Kara every time he stepped out of line? 

No, she couldn't - or at least wouldn't - not after his father his father gave his word.

_She expects me to break._

The thought hit him like a freight train. She had raised a privileged boy who craved luxury and comfort. Before he escaped in that Kryptonian pod, he would've begged his parents' forgiveness after being stuck in this cell for just an hour. He would've made apologies and promises, whatever it took to get back to his plush bed and all the ale he could ever drink. 

But that was the man she had raised: careless, voracious in every appetite, easily manipulated. She saw him behaving differently on Earth and assumed it was a fluke, a lie, a temporary inconvenience to her plans. She assumed that he was still the weak-willed Prince who would fall apart at the first sign of hardship.

Right now, he was fighting his mother's antiquated perception, the one that said he'd crumble under confinement and discomfort. And if he was being honest with himself, there was part of him that _wanted_ to fall apart, and the thought of never seeing Kara again was more than enough to lay him low for all his days. Wouldn't it be better if he hollowed himself out and became the grim-faced Prince of Daxam that never smiled, danced, or loved? Would that not be an adequate punishment for his mother's transgressions?

 _This is **not** about punishing Mother_ , he reminded himself. _This needs to be about the people of Daxam. So what would Kara do?_

Mon-El knew that she would never take the easy way out, and she would certainly never do so to punish one person at the expense of so many others. He needed his mother to see who he had become, which meant he couldn't fall apart or break.

He turned and examined his cell. It was larger than the one Cadmus had stuck him in and more comfortable than the one he'd been in briefly at the DEO. There was a decent, single-sized bed bolted to the wall. He moved to it, his legs trembling in the wake of his tumultuous emotions. He stretched out and tried to calm himself, willing his muscles to relax as he focused on his breathing.

_I can't break. Kara wouldn't._

He closed his eyes, but it did little to quell the fear and heartache raging inside him. So he made a promise on his love of Kara Zor-El that he wouldn't give up, break, or shut down.

He wasn't sure how long his resolve lasted, but it couldn't have been longer than a few minutes. He couldn't stop thinking about how every passing minute separated him from the Earth by light years. It was as if the reality of the situation was sinking in my millimeters, doubling and redoubling the pain. As soon as he thought he had it under control, he realized that he'd never get to tell Winn he had finally seen Star Wars, or that he'd never have a chance to help James win during a board game night. After all, it wasn't just Kara. Today, all the good people he'd ever known became memories to him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

So he couldn't fall to pieces, not today of all days. He had to keep it together, even if that meant staying strong just for one day. If it was too much to bear, he could crumble tomorrow.

For some reason, that last thought provided him with fleeting relief. He couldn't handle the idea of never seeing Kara or any of the others, let alone the prospect of a four-year journey in this cell. But he could hold on for today at least, and maybe the day after, and maybe the next day, too.

Mon-El would keep pretending he was strong, and then maybe, one day, he'd be a hero worthy of his friends' memory... and a Prince worthy of his people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's note** : Obviously this is going to be a dark and stormy fic, but it kept on nagging me to be written and just wouldn't go away. So, here it is! There will be many happy Earth flashbacks to balance out the darker parts of the fic, but other than that, it will focus on Mon-El and the great and noble houses of Daxam.


	2. Thorn

Mon-El must've slept at some point, for he dreamed about the first morning he woke up next to Kara. He watched her sleep for a long time, overwhelmed with peace and happiness. He thought he had known what those things were, but he had never felt them, not like this. Her eyes fluttered opened and met his, and this lazy smile lit up her face.

That had been the moment he knew he was completely in love with Kara Zor-El, and dreaming about it was like living that memory again for the first time.

Her beautiful blue comets were the last thing he saw before he woke up, alone in his prison cell.

It was a cruel contrast. Perhaps a better man would've let it steel his resolve, but it inspired a special kind of hopelessness in Mon-El, borne from the bitter realization that he would only ever see her in his dreams. His senses beguiled him, for a trace of her scent lingered on his shirt, making his nighttime imaginings feel twice as real, like she had been there next to him only moments ago, but she hadn't been. She couldn't have been.

He couldn't imagine getting out of bed, let alone standing his ground against his parents. But somehow, he knew that the day had already started, whether he was ready for it or not.

He glanced at the bars of his cell and saw that two guards were by the prison doors; there had only been one guard when he had fitfully fallen asleep. Unsure of what to make of this information (did night or day truly matter any longer?), he turned to his other side and tried to sleep again.

He nearly succeeded, but his body ached fiercely. He couldn't remember waking up sore like this, not since he landed on Earth. Had more important losses not eclipsed his thoughts, he might've realized that his powers wouldn't last long. They had vanished the moment he set foot under the red sun of Maldooria, and apparently, the same held true for space.

The pain pitched so that he couldn't lie still, so he carefully shifted into a sitting position, sliding the blanket off without thinking. 

Cold air - the likes of which could only be found in the vacuum of space - clobbered his entire body, and on instinct, he condensed for warmth, his abrupt reaction doubling the sore protest of his muscles.

After the initial shock, however, the cold was soothing.

Though he would never consciously admit to it, he was thankful for the pain and the prison cell. He found the physical discomfort reassuring. Had he woken up in a luxurious bed adorned with sumptuous sleepwear without Kara at his side, the dissonance would have driven him mad. The universe wasn't right anymore, and that _should_ hurt.

"My Prince," a soft voice said. "Their Majesties the King and Queen await Your Highness in the Great Hall."

The speaker was an unmasked male servant - likely a messenger, from the look of his garb - who approached noiselessly with a parcel of clothing. Keeping his head bowed, he gracefully pressed his delivery between the bars to present it properly - or as properly as possible, given the location. The gesture clearly indicated that the invitation was not to be declined.

"What is your name?" Mon-El asked.

"Raphin, your Highness," he replied, his voice shaking.

"Thank you, Raphin," Mon-El said as he took the parcel. "I shall change and call for you when I am ready."

Raphin backed away, still bowed, before be turned for the door. 

Apparently, every social convention and restriction survived the destruction of Daxam, and Mon-El couldn't help but resent it. He hadn't been prepared for the fear in the man's voice, though he should've expected it. On Daxam, it was unheard of for a person of station to request or use a servant's name, excepting those of sufficiently high rank and those in more intimate roles - such as a lord's valet or lady's personal maid - and even then only after a lengthy tenure.

He had willfully forgotten the hundred thousand constraints of high society on Daxam. He had despised them long before his time on Earth, though admittedly his distaste had stemmed from shallower motives back then. He had seen it as a way for his parents and tutors to control him, ignorant to how it enabled those in power to treat people like objects and perpetuated injustice at every level in Daxamite society. 

On Earth, where rank held little meaning in most social interactions, asking someone's name was just good manners. Here, it was a break with tradition, and it had the opposite effect that he'd hope for, alienating the man rather than making him more comfortable. But, if he wanted things to change, he would have to lead the way.

He turned his attention to the parcel. It contained traditional Daxamite traveling attire of tunic, trousers, and hooded robe, all augmented with a thick lining meant to provide insulation during interplanetary travel. 

While he couldn't protest their practicality, he found himself reluctant to put them on. He knew that once he was parted with the last of his Earthly apparel, his mother would order them incinerated, cleansing the last physical evidence of his time on the planet she had grown to hate in just a few short weeks. Perhaps it was silly to cling, but Kara had given him these garments, and he couldn't help feeling like it was one more piece of her that was being stripped away.

That's how he found himself tucking his undershirt and shirt beneath his mattress as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do. He made quick work of redressing, despite every muscle in his torso aching with the smallest movement.

When he was fully dressed, he finally felt how refined and intricate the garments were. Beyond the pure measure of craftsmanship, they also fit him exactly. No doubt some hapless soul toiled through the night making them. For some reason, the thought of it made him feel helpless. 

"Raphin," he called. "I'm ready."

He spoke boldly, but he _wasn't_ ready. He had spent months training to face down formidable enemies with his fists, but nothing that he had learned translated to dealing with his parents. Even if he did still have his powers, he couldn't just punch them out and lock them up.

A masked guard unlocked his cell and opened the door so Raphin could escort him out. They walked through a few winding corridors before reaching the lift. 

Mon-El tried to think of a plan as they ascended to the mid-deck, but the time crunch made his brain stop working. An odd kind of panic set in as they approached, dovetailing with the dread that set upon him as soon as he stepped out of his cell. At first he thought the dizziness came from his rapidly escalating heart rate, but that was before the pain in his side pitched. 

One minute, he was a little sore with a nagging pain running along his torso; the next, it was like lightning struck him. He suppressed a scream as he collapsed to the floor, and the next thing he knew, everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger… it just sort of happened. But the next chapter should be done soon. Hope you’ve enjoyed the latest installment. :)


	3. Brink

Mon-El became aware of things in short, tumultuous bursts, as if his life was flickering on and off. Light and sound hit him hard and fast before the pain consumed all his other senses and everything went dark. There was no time to think or reflect, even if he had his faculties at his disposal. 

"Mon-El," someone whispered.

_No, it can't be._

"Mon-El."

He opened his eyes and emerged from the darkness for what felt like the hundredth time. The voice that called for him was quiet, and he couldn't believe it. Even when his eyes fell upon Kara standing at his bedside, he couldn't believe it.

"I'm dreaming," he muttered.

She smiled but did not correct him, and for a few minutes, all he did was stare at her in wonderment. 

Gradually, he became aware of his surroundings. The rumbling and beeping of machines combined with the persistent discomfort of monitoring equipment meant that he was likely in the medical ward. That confused him, for the last thing he recalled was following Raphin into the lift.

"What happened?" he asked Kara.

"You already know," she replied.

"No, I - no, I don't."

_This must be a dream._

Kara would've gotten closer after he woke up from a near-miss. She would've held him, kissed him, touched him.

As if the thought commanded it so, she joined him on the bed, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close, gently caressing his head with her hand. He closed his eyes and let the sensation wash over him, no longer caring if he was awake or asleep.

"You're not asleep," she said.

He smiled at that and began walking through the last of his memories. He and Raphin were in the lift when it felt like lightning struck him. Had the DEO managed to acquire a spacecraft? Or maybe Winn had figured out how to resurrect some of the spare alien technology they had lying around. They must've come after him, and somehow, during their rescue attempt, the lift had been damaged. That's why he was in the medical ward.

"You know that's not the truth."

His eyes snapped open, for while Kara had known him very well, she had never been able to read his mind literally. What was happening?

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You can feel it," was all she replied.

Mon-El had been so focused on how good it felt to be held that he ignored the continuous discomfort and constant cold that radiated from his left arm and right leg. He glanced down and saw IV lines running from both. That was odd. Even when he was dying of the Medusa virus, the DEO hadn't done that.

"Because they couldn't," she reminded him gently.

The DEO couldn't puncture his skin, so they had to use the same adaptive technology they used to monitor Kara's vitals. As far as he could recall, it was a kind of visor that went around the crown of the head. He raised his free hand to his forehead to touch it, only to find that it wasn't there. 

The confusion persisted until he recalled waking up sore because his powers had faded completely. The DEO must've realized that and taken advantage to treat him more effectively.

"You know that's not true, either."

He looked up at Kara's face hoping to find solace there, but more importantly, to distract himself from the inevitable conclusion that his mind was racing toward. He already knew the truth, but he wanted to pretend a little while longer that he was back on Earth with the woman he loved. He focused on the shape of her lips and the graceful slope of her nose. He stared at those beautiful comets that comprised her eyes.

"You know where you are," she whispered softly.

Mon-El didn't want to think about it. She cupped his cheek and pressed her forehead into his, bringing her eyes impossibly close to him.

"You need to accept it," she said.

He swallowed hard against the bitterness that was swelling in his throat. After she discovered the truth about who he had been on Daxam, he promised that he wouldn't lie to her again. And in this moment, he found that he couldn't even lie to himself when staring into her impossibly blue eyes.

The DEO always employed yellow sun lamps to help Kryptonians and Daxamites recover from serious injuries or power loss, and he had seen Winn, Alex, and other humans treated enough times to know that standard medical practice on Earth was a single IV line to the arm. On Daxam, however, the standard was two lines situated to arm and opposite leg. 

All this added up to one simple fact: he was not being treated by the DEO.

Did that mean that the rescue attempt had failed? He choked on the idea of his friends being captured, injured, or killed trying to save him. He wasn't worth that. 

"You know what happened," she repeated.

Mon-El remembered standing in the lift, an abrupt increase in pain, and then falling to the floor. Those little moments he recalled between then and waking up to Kara's voice were little more than chaotic movements with so much sound and light that they seemed unreal.

"I collapsed," he said. "But I don't remember why."

Suddenly, he was standing next to her, and he clasped her hand in his, weaving their fingers together as he took in the sight before him. 

He - or his body, at any rate - was lying in a hospital cot, unconscious. The layers of blankets made it hard to tell, but it seemed that his clothing had been replaced with a medical gown. Countless monitors surrounded him, presenting constant information on his vitals, all in High Daxamite.

"It can't be that bad," he commented as he looked to her for support. "It's not like they have me on life support."

Kara gave him a look that he had come to know as the "Are you sure about that?" expression. She wore it every time he announced that the movie they were watching must surely end happily. He tended to do this right before everything turned sour, but for some reason, he always expected the next one to have its own happy ending.

He turned back to his body and was shocked by what he saw. They did, in fact, have him on life support, complete with circulatory assistance and a full breathing mask. How had he missed that before?

"You see what you want to see here," she said, as if to answer his question.

"That explains why I see you," he replied with a smile.

"But you need to see more," she explained. "Even if you don't want to."

He nodded his head, yes. It was the only way he would know what had happened and if his friends were still alive, which meant he didn't have the luxury of hemming and hawing over how this couldn't be real. Kara had taught him that he had survived for a reason, that he lived for a reason, so he must be here - wherever _here_ was - for a reason, too. His resolve only faltered upon one consideration.

He asked, "Will you stay with me?"

Her lips formed a smile that shined so brightly that it put the stars to shame. 

"Of course I'll stay with you," she replied, squeezing his hand as reassurance.

Mon-El then turned to take in the rest of the room. There were at least a dozen people dressed in medical garb focused on him, or the sleeping version of him, in any case. No one seemed to notice that there was another Mon-El nor Kara, probably because they weren't really here.

So he followed one of the doctors out. No sooner had they stepped outside the room than he wished he hadn't, for his parents were waiting, their faces grim and crestfallen.

"The surgery was completely successful, your Majesties," the doctor said in High Daxamite. "The internal bleeding has stopped now that the blood vessels have been repaired."

"Were your associates able to discover a cause?" the King asked.

"His Highness's injuries are congruent with those sustained from a direct high-energy blast while wearing heavy armor," the doctor replied. "Though a rare occurrence, the injury could have been incurred up to twelve hours before collapse." 

"While he was still on Earth," the Queen said, not bothering to hide her distain.

The doctor bowed his head as an indicator of an affirmative answer. 

"When will he wake up?" the King asked.

"That... forgive me, your Majesty, I cannot be certain," the doctor replied. "Each patient is different. His Highness is young and healthy. He could be awake in as soon as a few hours."

"Why isn't he breathing on his own?" his mother demanded.

"One of his Highness's internal injuries was very close to the heart, your Majesty," the doctor explained. "By necessity, our repairs caused widespread inflammation in the lungs. But I wish to assure your Majesties that this reaction is entirely normal and expected. That was why we waited for half a day before our first attempt to wean his Highness from the vent. Our tests show that the inflammation has persisted longer than anticipated. With your Majesty's permission, we shall administer additional medicine to reduce the inflammation and try again in a few hours."

Mon-El spotted the fury on his mother's face before she turned away to conceal it. His father laid a hand on her shoulder to comfort her, and she immediately tensed under the affection, resistant as always to any sign of weakness shared with those she deemed as lesser than herself. A moment later, however, she relaxed and dropped her head into her hands.

"Continue with your treatment," the King said. "Report to us immediately if anything changes, no matter how unimportant it may seem."

"Yes, your Majesty," the doctor replied.

He bowed deeply before taking his leave, and Mon-El wondered what would happen to the doctor who tried to save his life if he died. 

"Rhea," the King said. "Please."

Mon-El suddenly felt like he was spying on his parents, and he felt the urge to leave before he accidentally intruded on them. He decided to leave and see who else was in the medical ward.

When he went for the door, Kara became an immovable force that anchored him to the room. He gave her a confused look, and she answered his question before he had a chance to ask it.

"Listen," she said. "You need to hear."

The only way to escape his parents was to relinquish her hand, and that was far too high a price. So he stayed. 

"He will recover, Rhea," the King said. 

She turned to face him. She replied, "We left the poison of Earth behind us, yet it still tries to take our son."

Had they not been in a semi-public thoroughfare, Mon-El had no doubt that his father would've embraced his mother. She had always insisted that such things made her appear weak, even though it flew in the face of Daxamite custom. His father had always respected her wish to avoid public displays of affection despite the social expectations to the contrary. It was such a break with tradition that it garnered commentary, and those brave souls who dared whisper a word against the Queen referred to her as the Ice Queen. That nickname melted away after his birth, for she never hesitated to show maternal affection in public.

"You should sleep," his father insisted. "I'll stay with him tonight."

She shook her head, no, but then she relented and left without another word. The King turned to his son with concern etched into his face.

"They think I was injured on Earth?" Mon-El asked. "That's impossible."

"Is it?" Kara asked him.

"Uh, yeah. I was invulnerable there," he replied.

"Not entirely," she said patiently. "And not long before you boarded this ship, you were involved in two fights. You could've been injured in either. Or both."

"Which I wouldn't have noticed if I had stayed on Earth," he said, cottoning on. "Because my powers would've healed me. But instead, I'm over there on machines."

A number of things occurred to him then. Had there been a rescue attempt, they would've assumed he was wounded during the attack. Collapsing from previous injures meant that none of his friends had been captured or killed, but he couldn't help but feel disappointed.

His father's head dropped into his hands suddenly, drawing Mon-El's attention. 

"Is it just me, or does he seem a little too concerned?" he asked in jest.

"He can feel it," Kara replied. 

"Feel it?" Mon-El repeated skeptically. "You mean us hovering next to him?"

"You're dying," she said bluntly.

He shouldn't have been surprised. At some point he had realized this for himself, but hearing the words fall from her mouth was like a shot to the gut. All the playful commentary fell out of his head, and he was instead left with nothing but fear.

"Right, well," he said. "Maybe it's for the best."

Kara's face fell, but she said nothing.

"Right?" he said, as if he might convince her. "I mean, all I want is to go back to Earth to be with you... to have our life there. But if I do that, my parents... they'd never stop. Living means fighting my parents until I don't have the strength anymore. It means being without you."

"I'm right here," she said.

Her eyes were wide and bereft, and her expression tugged at his heartstrings. With his free hand, he reached up and cupped her cheek to comfort her.

"Hey," he whispered. "Don't be sad. I'm not. I got to meet you. To love you."

"It's your decision," she said as her eyes swelled with tears.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. "Look at me. What can I do?"

"You can choose to fight."

"I did. I am."

"Are you?" she asked.

He was, of course he was. Maybe not as hard as he could, but he was fighting. 

Her worrying crinkle appeared before she closed in for a kiss. It was slow and sweet yet took his breath away.

"It's your decision," she said. "But you know what I would want."

"Even if we never see each other again?"

"So long as you live, there's always the chance," she replied.

He gripped her tightly, desperate to reassure her, but as much as he wanted to promise her he'd live, he couldn't. Fate had set things in motion, and whatever happened next was in the hands of destiny. He could fight harder than he'd ever fought in his life, but that didn't mean he would win. 

"When you get the chance, you should tell him what you need," she said. "You'll only get one."

"What?"

Whatever she meant, she didn't elaborate, and moments later, he found himself being pulled back into the darkness. He gripped Kara's hand with all his strength, and it reassured him until he realized that she was just in his head, a projection crafted from his memories of her. Then the sensation of her hand in his vanished, and he choked on the absence.

And he kept choking because something was lodged in his throat. Panic set in immediately as he fought against it, trying desperately to take a deep breath despite the obstruction. He tried to grab whatever it was, but his arms were like lead and wouldn't budge. 

Sounds swirled around him as he gagged, and he wondered if this was how his life would end: alone, in a whirl of confusion and darkness. Terrified, he forced his eyes opened, desperate for a glimpse of Kara. He wanted her to be the last thing he saw. 

His vision was fuzzy, and there were too many moving bodies around him, all wearing medical garb. One was standing over him, speaking. 

"Your Highness, please, if you can, remain calm and cough," the man said.

Mon-El coughed hard and felt the impediment shift inside. He gagged as he realized that the man was attempting to remove a long tube, and he fought every instinct he had to cough again and again, hoping it would expedite the process. When it was finally out of his mouth, he gasped for breath and tried to roll to his side, but he didn't have much control over his body. 

"Stand aside for his Majesty," someone said. 

He looked up and caught sight of Kara decked out in her Supergirl attire, her crinkle etched deeply into her forehead and her eyes shining with both tears and hope. She looked at him like he was the only thing in the universe.

Then the King was at his side, grasping his hand and drawing his attention.

"Mon-El," he said. "Can you hear me?"

 _Tell him what you need_ , Kara's voice rang in his head. 

He tried to say something, but his throat felt like he had recently tried to swallow a fireball. He wound up coughing more than speaking. 

"It's okay, son," his father said. "Just breath. You're going to be okay."

Mon-El knew that his father wanted that statement to be true, but he still felt a shadow lingering over him that had not lifted during his abrupt thrust into consciousness. He couldn't be sure it would last. 

"I... need..." Mon-El gasped. "I..."

"It's all right," his father said. "You should rest."

"No... I need... need..." he stuttered.

He could feel himself falling back into the darkness. Kara had warned him that he would only have one chance, and he feared he was losing it.

"Sun," he forced out. "Yellow sun... to heal... to..."

Mon-El spotted Kara over his father's shoulder, her smile beaming so brightly that it overshadowed his father's confused expression. Her brilliant comets were the last things he saw before he sank back into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed this latest installment.
> 
>  **A Quick Note on What Happened in this Chapter**  
>  For reference, Mon-El was thrown around quite a lot the day he boarded the ship. The telepath bounty hunter took control of his body, forcing him to fight his friends. He also fought his mother at the Fortress of Solitude. He sustained numerous internal injuries because his skin was impervious, as were his bones. So his organs and other soft tissues took a bit of a beating when he was thrown around. Had he stayed on Earth, he would've healed completely and quickly. Instead, he was left with partially-healed internal injuries with no super-healing to fix him up. One of them put pressure on a blood vessel that ruptured. 
> 
> I will admit the situation regarding such an injury isn't entirely in the realm of sense per our known super-heroes, but I am partial to blaming variations in Daxamite anatomy and of course, poetic license.


	4. Drive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally posted an earlier draft of this story last night. Sorry about that! Updated it today.

Mon-El opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness with the faintest blurs of gray. It occurred to him that such a development should concern him, but he couldn't hold on to a thought for more than a few moments because his breathing was so erratic. It would be clear and even for a spell, then all of a sudden, he'd start wheezing, and not long after he'd be gasping for air.

Again, that should've concerned him, but it didn't. 

Those rare moments when he was lucid and not struggling to breath, he felt stiff, feverish, nauseated, and achy, but none of it was enough to distract him from the abiding loneliness. With wit enough for self-awareness, he became acutely aware of Kara's absence, and he drifted between the hope of her future arrival and the crushing reality of their separation.

Mon-El wasn't sure how long he lingered in this state, but it felt endless, like he was forever stranded alone in the blackness. And an old part of him bubbled up, fraught with anxiety and paranoia. He sensed another presence, not friendly and certainly not Kara. No, this was someone (or some _thing_ ) malevolent and dangerous, and it was watching him.

He felt himself tremble. That old part of him was one he'd meticulously buried deep. He'd hoped he'd never have to remember it, let alone face it again. But it was drummed up, screaming into life by the sensation of predatory eyes upon him.

Fear gave way to panic, and his heart rate escalated to match. In a desperate attempt to escape whatever was stalking him from the shadows, Mon-El forced himself to move. His entire body was like lead and did little more than feebly shake at his command, but his eyes opened wide at his behest, providing his first view of the world outside his head in what felt like forever.

Then suddenly everything hit him at once: blaring machines, a cacophony of voices, an ache that went down to the bone. Hands were at his shoulders, and hope seized him, drawing his eyes up to the face of the person comforting, certain he would see Kara's impossibly blue comets shining back at him. 

Instead, he saw the dull brown eyes of the nurse or orderly or whoever had been assigned to watch over him. His surprise was foolish. This was how things had always been on Daxam: his parents ordered people to keep an eye on him, to guard him, to ply him with company. He hadn't known real companionship or true friendship until his time on Earth.

The realization knocked the fight out of him, and he crumpled back into the bed, defeated and spent. He would've shut his eyes, but the haunting fear had yet to abate, leaving him unwillingly vigilant. 

"You're awake," someone said.

His mother's voice was startlingly quiet, and he wondered how long he had been struggling to recover. If her tone was any indication, it must've been weeks.

Everyone hastily exited as she approached his bedside. She stood above him, undoubtedly trying to catch his eye, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her. He had fought so hard to tell his father about the healing power of the yellow sun, and there was no doubt in his mind that his mother hadn't allowed it. That was why he was still in this bed and had been for... well, however long he'd been here. However long she had pretended to worry for his well being.

"Can you hear me?" she asked. 

Mon-El's gut clenched horribly, a visceral reaction to match his emotional turmoil. It almost sounded like she cared. 

_Almost._

"Mon-El?"

He turned to her, wishing he had the strength to convey his anger to her, but he didn't even have enough energy to keep her in focus. 

She started speaking, but he couldn't hear her properly, only catching phrases here and there. She said something about him scaring them badly, then insisted he would be all right, that he was getting better. She went on to promise him that once he was well again, he would take his proper place, and everything would be well and right in the universe.

Or something to that effect. 

He wasn't sure when the thought solidified in his mind, but he found himself agreeing with her. He _would_ take his proper place. Somehow, swimming in the darkness with a nebulous, unknowable threat looming over him, he discovered the resolve he could only pretend to possess before.

Mon-El drifted into a dreamless sleep, his mind finally at peace with who he would have to become.

* * *

He woke in the early hours of the morning, his newfound resolution clear in his mind. Without considering the situation, he got to his feet to stretch his legs, slowed only by the IV lines pulling at his flesh. It took a few minutes before anyone noticed that he was up and walking, but then orderlies rushed in, insisting he conserve his strength and return to bed.

He ignored them until his lungs protested. It felt like congestion, then like his chest wasn't big enough, like it couldn't expand for air. By the time the wheezing started, the covers had been pulled back over him, and a nurse was handing him a portable inhaler.

"Please, Your Highness," the nurse said. "This will treat the inflammation and help Your Highness breathe."

She walked him through using the device. It did make his breathing easier but left him feeling jumpy and shaky and simultaneously too weak to do anything about it. Still, he felt alert and aware - no, alive - for the first time he could remember since collapsing in the lift. But then the wheezing returned around mid-morning. The doctors assured him that it was nothing more than inflammation recurring as his lungs healed. They asked him to rest and avoid speaking as much as possible, which Mon-El decided justified him not engaging his parents when they came to visit in the afternoon. He fell asleep not long after and didn't wake until the early morning.

Thus went the next ten days. He'd feel better in the wee hours when he woke, only to crash not long after. He got better by inches, up on and his feet for a few minutes more each day. On the ninth day, one doctor told him that he'd soon be well enough to be discharged, though he'd require a portable inhaler for some time as well as frequent checkups to monitor his progress. 

On the tenth day, his parents had formal Daxamite attire brought to him and ordered him dressed and prepared for an incredibly early dinner. It was plain he had no choice in the matter, and he went without a fuss, conserving his strength, _doctor's orders_. He relayed that to his parents after they spent several awkward minutes overpolitely inquiring after his health before an abiding silence fell over them.

"We've passed the Andromeda Galaxy," Rhea announced. "Now that we've left these... _primitive_ solar systems, we can look forward to being received formally by our allies and ambassadors. The Planets of the Runestone are nearby. You always liked them, and they've hardly changed. I have no doubt they will invite us to attend one festival or another, they always seem to have one."

"Emissaries from the Willow Empire have already extended invitations," Lar added.

"Soon, they'll all be clamoring for you," she said proudly. "The miraculously returned Prince of Daxam."

Mon-El's appetite fouled him, unable to stomach their words. He didn't have it in him to maintain appearances or to save face, so he abruptly and gracelessly stood up from the table. 

"I'm going to bed," he said, the wheeze evident in his voice.

"Of course," his father agreed. He snapped his fingers at Raphin and said, "You! Take my son to his chambers and see to his needs for the night."

Raphin bowed low in acceptance of the command before leading Mon-El out of the Great Hall to the lift. As he stepped inside, he sneaked his arm between Raphin and the control panel, activating transport to the prison level.

"My prince," Raphin said. "The King ordered chambers be prepared for you on the third level."

"I command you to take me to my cell," Mon-El said. Then he added, "I won't have my father claim that you disobeyed an order."

The man was flabbergasted, but he held his peace and nodded his head, yes. That was his sole regret in this choice: the ramifications were not his alone.

There was something immensely satisfying about foregoing the warm, sumptuous bedroom his parents had in store for him for a cold, spare prison cell. The same cell his mother had threatened to lock him in for the next four years. It seemed untouched since he was last there, but he was loathed to find that his shirt and undershirt were no longer where he'd hidden them.

Raphin entreated him to go to his chambers once more, though it was clear it was little more than lip service to fulfill the King's orders. Mon-El stepped inside and ordered the guard to lock him in.

It didn't take long for the Queen to race in, ready to reprimand him.

"What is the meaning of this?" Rhea demanded. "We agreed. Once you were well, you'd take your proper place. As things should be."

"I did," he said. "And I am where I'm am suppose to be. My proper place is in this cell."

"There is no reason for this," she said, wavering between anger and sympathy. "You will be more comfortable in your chambers. Everything that has happened... it's all in the past."

"Not for me," he replied.

"Stop being foolish," she sneered. "Your anger is childish. You belong with your people. There is no other place for you - "

Mon-El interrupted, "I _am_ with my people. I'm their Prince, but I have dangerous ideas, like equality and freedom and change. And those aren't going away. So I'm going to stay in here, Mother, where you said I belonged."

"Do not test me," Rhea said through gritted teeth. The proud feature of her face alight with barely-contained rage. 

"Why not?" he quipped. "Are you planning to drag me out so you can throw me back in?"

"Fine," she said, no longer holding back her venom. "We'll see how long this will last."

He watched her storm off, and the sight gave him the faintest hint of triumph. He hoped Kara would've been proud of him, anyway.


	5. Monotone

Mon-El raced nimbly down hallway after hallway, randomly turning this way and that, barreling through the off-limits corridors of the central high palace, paying no attention to which direction he took, and relishing his newfound, unfettered freedom.

He turned a corner - one identical to the dozens that came before it - and skidded to a halting crash, landing awkwardly on his side. He cast his eyes warily towards a terrifying maw that spanned the entire width of the ceiling and nearly half its length. For one horrifying moment, Mon-El thought he might be swallowed down the gullet of some monstrous beast, but then he spotted the telltale glint of gold against the cold contrast of wrought steel. He found himself transfixed with the elegant arrangement of parts, each one etched and embossed with fine, intricate patterns. At the center of it was an equally resplendent tongue, though its shape and proportion seemed wrong, even to his untrained eye.

Then it moved, and a deep, dangerous sound erupted as it shifted one way, then the other, then back again.

It took Mon-el three strikes to realize that the fixture above him fashioned as an ominous orifice was a bell. And not just any bell... no, this was one of the great palace bells, signaling the evening.

He had three more strikes of the bell before the sound of his title - _Your Highness_ \- jolted him from his reprieve. They'd found him...

Mon-El snapped awake to the sound of metal rattling against metal, the after-image of his dream clinging to his eyes.

No, not a dream. A memory.

At a young age, he'd made a habit of slipping away from his many minders - nurses, tutors, guards, and whoever else his parents had ordered to keep him in line - to explore on his own. Whenever he succeeded, his father stepped in, first to discipline whoever lost track of him, then to scold Mon-El about his behavior. In hindsight, this was probably meant as a deterrent, but it had the exact opposite affect. At the time, those reprimands were the extent of his father's attention outside of royal events, where hardly a word passed between them.

He was five when he first managed not only to slip away but also sneak into an area that was off-limits. He had felt so triumphant, so elated... then disappointed. He'd expected extravagant tapestries, bejeweled vases, or an armory, but the corridors he found were naught but endless small doors, the halls themselves harsh, dark, and sparse, save for the great bell, the one shaped like one of The Watchers, the Daxamite version of grotesque guardians, akin to the gargoyles of earth.

He learned much later that the bells only rang for calls to service: to change shifts, to dress their charges, to serve meals. Once it rang, the servants had precious few minutes to arrive at their assigned posts. 

Mon-El also distinctly remembered learning that it was Sal Gand, the third king of the Gand dynasty, who decreed that the great bells only toll for summoning. When he asked why, all of his tutors shared the same look of concern, as if his question indicated a lack of intelligence.

Then, as politely as possible, the head tutor explained, "His Royal Majesty Sal Gand was a wise king who brought peace and abundance in his reign. Yet the people were ungrateful and thoughtless, and with no consideration to how it might affect His Royal Majesty, they rang the bells to wake the servants at times when the High Royal Family was sleeping. They likewise rang the bell at times of preparation, when His Royal Majesty was focused on important matters of state. It was a cacophony every day, and His Royal Majesty Sal Gand refused to abide it. And because of that, their Royal Majesties the Queen and King and Your Highness need never suffer the echoes of bells that the High Royal Family has no wish to hear."

Mon-El had only asked because bell ringing seemed so trivial a thing, too _small_ to be worthy of a king's notice, so he accepted the tutor's answer without much consideration. He didn't think to ask how the servants managed to rise hours before dawn nor how they kept schedule, despite many being too poor to own their own timekeeping devices. It wasn't until many years later that he learned the answer to the questions he'd never asked.

The children of servants collected discarded metals and parts, hoping that, one day, they would have the pieces required to craft a small bell. Any servant without one risked sleeping in, receiving reprimand, and losing both their job and their home. That was why, regardless of its appearance, a working bell was always counted among a servant's most prized and cherished possessions.

Many managed to create their own bell before their call to service. A very lucky few received them as gifts from either someone in their debt or a member of the lower ruling class, who generally knew more about the ways and cares of servants. Some received bells as an inheritance upon a blood relative's death; thus, the Daximite euphemism _to leave a sound bell_ , which indicated a servant passing in honorable standing.

At least, that was what the expression was _supposed_ to mean. In High Daxamite, being called a _bell-leaver_ was a grave (albeit archaic) insult, and members of the elite would threatened each other with sayings like, " _By the time I'm finished with you, you'll leave nothing but a bell!_ "

As a child, all he knew was the awe he felt at the sight of the great bell, and he wondered after the sentiment that led such a thing to be added to a corridor for servant quarters. He had assumed that those who ran the palace must've cared deeply for those who served, not only providing a bell for their benefit, but also one so intricately made. Why else would they put such a fearsome and wonderful thing where only servants could see and admire it?

He had believed that the ruling elite _gave_ to the lowest of the low: food, housing, work, ornate bells, and all the rest of it. Those around him built up this belief with nearly every word from their mouths, and as a child with limited contact outside the royal court, he had no reason to question it. That had served as the foundation of his understanding of everything, tainting his perception to the point that whenever a servant erred, his immediate reaction was bitter resentment.

After all, what right did a servant have to be short with him, the Prince of Daxam, after his family had so graciously appointed that same servant to a coveted position in _their_ palace? His family had sheltered, fed, and protected these lowly beings and demanded nothing but the pittance that comprised a servant's duties. How difficult could that possibly be? The obligations in question were hardly difficult; otherwise, such tasks would never have been trusted to the lowest denominator.

Shame swept over him as he realized he had maintained that perception - or some form of it - until his time on Earth. He hadn't even _questioned_ it.

The metal-against-metal sounded again, dragging him away from his musings. 

He opened his eyes. He had a lot to make up for. He'd better start now.

"The gods raise the day as the sun, Your Highness," Raphin said gently. 

Perhaps he was still sleepy, but he struggled to recognize the traditional Daxamite greeting, the lexical equivalent to "good morning."

Raphin continued, "I am to escort Your Highness to the medical ward."

"What time is it, Raphin?" he asked.

"Dawn, Your Highness."

Mon-El wanted to point out that they were in space where _dawn_ didn't exist, but he bit his tongue. Daxamites preferred to score time as dawn, morning, midday, afternoon, dusk, evening, midnight, and aftereve, more so than counting the hours and minutes. Apparently, that tradition persisted despite spending the last few decades with neither planet nor sun to mark the distinction.

"You were ordered to take me to the medical ward at dawn?" he asked.

"Her Royal Majesty insisted upon the time, Your Highness."

"Of course she did," Mon-El grumbled as he reluctantly left the warmth of his bed.

One of the guards unlocked the door as he donned yesterday's robes over the clothing he had slept in to avoid the frigid air. Before he could step out of the cell, however, Raphin presented a new parcel of clothing.

Mon-El took it and tucked it under his arm.

"Thank you, Raphin," he said."I'll change in the medical wing."

"Yes, Your Highness," Raphin replied, bowing. 

Then he turned on his heel toward the lift.

* * *

The medical ward was quiet, for the entire staff stood at attention, waiting to receive him. As soon as he crossed the threshold, they all bowed low.

Mon-El's breath caught in the back of his throat. Such deference was reserved for the Queen and King, and while a sign of fealty to the Prince was no act of treason, it could easily be interpreted as an act of defiance.

And Mon-El didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve their loyalty or fidelity. He didn't deserve any of it.

It took him a moment to realize that they were waiting on him.

"Rise," he ordered in High Daxamite, a knee-jerk reaction from his years of training as Prince. So he said, "Please, rise."

The language felt strange on his tongue and sounded stranger to his ear, but neither was as bizarre as watching his command followed as if he possessed true authority.

Almost as one, the entire room shifted from a low bow to standing at attention. Mon-El had hoped they would return to their previous tasks, but patients and doctors alike kept their heads lowered and their eyes downcast, their faces fixed with expressions of reverence. A sense of discomfort - nigh embarrassment - snuck up on him, inspiring an overwhelming urge to escape.

Before he could process the situation, however, the Doctor in Chief took the smallest of steps forward.

"We are pleased to see Your Highness in such good health," the Doctor in Chief spoke, her voice unnaturally quiet. "We have prepared the primary examination room."

She extended her arm and indicated the room he had spent weeks recovering in, though without a permanent occupant, it appeared much like all the others.

"Very well," he said before he stepped inside, doggedly following the Daxamite custom of royalty leading the way even when it wasn't their place to do so, as if it was some kind of answer to the interest and respect they'd shown him.

Three doctors followed him in and attended him, running scans with various tools he couldn't identify, as if trying to convince him that three medical doctors were needed for one person's exam. Of course, his parent's wouldn't care about something as trivial as wasting a doctor's time.

After about ten minutes, the Doctor in Chief bowed low and excused herself, undoubtedly to report on his health to his parents.

"Your Highness, we have concluded the examination," the first doctor said in High Daxamite. "And the results are within the projections for Your Highness's recovery and health."

"Please, can we drop the formalities?" he asked.

It was too early in the morning for parsing the eight layers of unwarranted respect applied to the Royal Family in every day conversations.

"Forgive us, Your Highness," the other doctor said. "But their Royal Majesties the King and Queen would not be... _accepting_ of such a scenario."

"Well, then, it's a good thing neither are here to protest," he replied.

It was another thoughtless response, the kind of flippant remark he would've said before the destruction of his planet. It had been easy enough for _him_ to say, of course; the Prince never risked losing his tongue for speaking out of turn. He had once made a habit of saying it to speed along tedious conversations. Like everything he did back then, it was to benefit himself.

But he wasn't that person anymore. He _wouldn't_ be that person anymore.

He continued, "What I mean is... I would prefer that I speak to you as any other patient, and for you to speak to me as my doctors, not my subjects. And my parents need never hear of it. Please."

"Very well, my Prince," the first doctor agreed.

"Yes, my Prince," chimed the second.

Mon-El sighed. It was too much to hope that anyone but his own parents would call him by his name, but 'my Prince' was certainly an improvement on 'Your Highness.'

The remainder of the appointment went by quickly. The doctors explained to him that his lungs were still inflamed and healing, which could cause difficulty breathing, so he needed to carry a portable inhaler. They also warned him to avoid strenuous physical activity.

He thanked them before they left the room, changed into the new outfit from Raphin, and folded his used clothing into a decently tidy pile so he could tuck it under his arm.

When Raphin came to escort him, he looked confused, then horrified.

"Your Highness, we servants will happily attend to those," he said, indicating the pile of dirty laundry.

It felt dangerously awkward, so Mon-El replied, "Ah, of course. I'll just leave them here, then."

"Very good, Your Highness."

As they left the medical bay, everyone stopped what they were doing to watch him go, bowing at his departure.

Which was also quite odd. Daxamites only showed such deference to a prince or princess at their funerals, and only if said prince or princess died before taking the throne, rather than those who lived and died with the title because the line of succession passed them by. 

It occurred to him that their devotion could be from curiosity more than honor. After all, he wasn't just their prince; no, he was the Lost Prince, miraculously recovered from a planet galaxies away, somehow alive and well despite the decades he spent apart from his people. The fact that he nearly died mere days after his parents so-called "rescue" would only serve to make him seem even more extraordinary.

How much did they know? Given his parents' involvement, the better question was, what did they know? Even before Daxam's destruction, the Queen and King would've provided an account of pure invention for such a scenario, and he doubted that had changed.

* * *

Mon-El was left pondering Daxamite tradition and history lying across the bed in his cell. Raphin brought him breakfast and lunch, which solely marked the passage of time.

His meals were all rehydrated, but they weren't terrible. He found himself more bored than anything else. Perhaps his parents thought that the tedium would get to him better than direct punishment.

Raphin approached again and said, "The gods bless the twilight eve and eventide, Your Highness."

"Good evening, Raphin," he replied.

"Their Royal Majesties the Queen and King bid Your Highness to dinner," he said.

Did his mother think he'd break after one day in a cell? How weak did she think he was?

Fury build in him as he followed Raphin up the lift to the Great Hall, where a lavish meal was set and his parents awaited him.

They gave him no greeting, and he likewise said nothing to them as he took his place at the table. For the first four courses, the only words spoken were those required for serving, and Mon-El derived a strange satisfaction out of the dreary silence.

"Has your time in the cell enlightened you?" his mother asked.

"I've been thinking about what you've told everyone," he said. "About you finding me."

"You mean, how we rescued you," his father corrected.

"And what you've been telling them while searching for me," he said.

"Perhaps, in time," his father said. "But your mother and I are concerned about your current... arrangements."

"Then perhaps mother should have considered her words more carefully before insisting I belonged there."

"Don't be stubborn," his mother snapped.

"Now, Rhea, if he wants to stay in some prison cell for the sake of his pride, there's no reason to stop him," his father added. "But perhaps he would be amenable to spending his time in a more productive manner."

"Such as?" Rhea asked.

"Reading the historical archive," his father suggested. "Let him see what our people have lived through since the fall of Daxam... since we lost him."

"Very well," his mother replied, disapproval dripping from every syllable. "But this conversation isn't over. We expect you at breakfast tomorrow, Mon-El."

It was a very clear dismissal, so he left the table and returned to his cell, wondering after his father's suggestion.

It wasn't a bad idea to read up on recent history, though he doubted the archive would provide a true accounting of events. His best bet for the truth would be the ship's logs and records, but he'd had to be careful about how he got his hands on those, lest his parents intercept them or redact whatever truths they didn't want him to have.

Yes, obtaining such sensitive information would take time and patience, so, for now, he needed to play their game, no matter how much he hated it.

That's what Kara would've done.

For the next four weeks, he lived the routine of rising at dawn for his medical exam, eating breakfast with his parents in a stony silence, and then returning to his cells to read from the historical archive until diner, when he would wrap up his day with another awkward meal with his parents, which usually consisted of him listening to them insist upon the voracity of the material he was reading.

Days and doctors and lies blurred into each other, giving Mon-El with this distinct feeling that his life had lost all its color, leaving him with nothing but grey and black.

At on point, he realized he'd gone an entire day without thinking about Kara, and it made his heartache. Was he forgetting her already? How could he?

He undulated between grief and guilt, floundering in his inexperience. Was this normal? Was this _right_? How could leaving Kara behind ever be the right thing?

Back on Earth, when he was mourning the loss of his planet, he experienced something like this. There would be days when the dread and fear and guilt weren't so bad, and somehow he'd make it through the day without thinking about it. When he confided in Kara, she told him that it was a good thing, that it was a sign he was healing.

Is that what was happening now? Was he 'healing'? If so, he hated it, and he never wanted to heal. 

Whatever his parents were doing, it was definitely starting to get to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's note** : I'm currently dealing with ulnar tunnel syndrome and cubital tunnel syndrome, which limits how much time I have to type. Please bare with me...


End file.
